


Nicotine

by smallerontheoutside (theinvisiblequestion)



Series: Playlist [9]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Bar/Pub, Alternate Universe - Boy Band, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, F/M, Mild Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-22
Updated: 2015-02-22
Packaged: 2018-03-14 14:46:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3414614
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theinvisiblequestion/pseuds/smallerontheoutside
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bellamy's not an addict. He's <em>not</em>. Honest. (Okay, maybe a little bit.)</p><p>(Inspired by Panic! at the Disco's song of the same name.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nicotine

Bellamy’s half-asleep on the couch when his phone goes off. He ignores it, because he’s really comfortable, but it goes off three more times and Octavia’s glaring at him from across the living room where she and Lincoln are watching TV.

It’s Clarke again.

_bellamy?_

He’s not going to reply to her. It’s been three days since she pretty much jumped him behind the coffee shop. Like he told Octavia, though, he’s fine. One short, sudden kiss doesn’t mean he’s going to go back to being at her beck and call. So what if he hasn’t seen anyone else—kissed anyone else—in the six months since that first night at the bar? Doesn’t mean he’s going to jump right back in with her after she lied to him about so many things.

“Don’t do it, Bell,” Octavia sings.

“I’m not,” he sings back, even as he contemplates meeting her in the back corner booth at the bar around the corner so she can destroy him one more time.

Jasper comes into the living room with a soda in one hand and a video game controller in the other. He stops next to Bellamy and says, “Dude, you’re an addict.”

“I am _not_ ,” Bellamy protests, even as he does his best not to think about Clarke: tight jeans and smeared black paint Clarke; angry cocktail dress Clarke; mid-filming lunch-break Clarke who tastes like bad coffee and potato chips—

Jasper laughs, waving the controller around at Bellamy. “It’s all over your face.”

So much for a nap. Bellamy gets off the couch and changes his sweats for jeans. He’s going to go the bar, and just because it’s after eight on a Friday night doesn’t mean anything. Lots of people are getting off work, and _he_ needs a drink after a long work week, too.

“Bellamy,” Octavia warns when he shrugs his jacket on.

“I’m just going to the bar,” he says. He leaves before she gets any ideas about stopping him.

He sits in his usual booth because it’s open, not because he expects Clarke to come look for him there. The mayor’s daughter lives up in the Heights, fifteen minutes away through the middle of the city.

Still, he’s not going to complain when she shows up shortly after eight-thirty and makes a beeline for his booth.

“Bellamy.”

“Clarke.”

“Can I sit?”

He shrugs. “Seat’s open.”

“You didn’t answer your phone.”

“Neither did you.”

Clarke huffs. “I didn’t think you were going to care so much about it.”

He didn’t care. Did he? He’s staring at her, and he’s so used to her being angry that he’s having trouble reading her face now. “I didn’t think you were going to run off like that.”

“God, Bellamy, for the hundredth time, I’m _sorry_.”

He leans back in his seat, playing with his glass. “Yeah, well, I guess I get it. I mean, a grease-monkey like me probably isn’t going to get the mayor’s approval.”

Clarke looks surprised.

“Your name was on the paperwork at the shop, _Griffin_.” He drains the last of his glass, now mostly water.

She nods. “Right.”

“So,” he drops the glass back on the table, “care to tell me why you’re slumming it down here?”

“You know why I’m here.”

Bellamy turns toward her, and he sees the familiar irritation in the creases of her forehead. “Say it,” he says.

She gives him a real scowl then, and growls, “Shut up, jackass.”

He shouldn’t enjoy it this much, the feel of her lips on his and her fingers in his hair and her smooth skin under his work-rough hands. He’s pretty sure it shouldn’t feel like the sweet relief of _just one more_ , but it does. He lets himself forget that Octavia is probably camped out on the couch in his apartment around the corner, and that Clarke’s going to walk away from him, and that he hasn’t actually forgiven Clarke for anything. He’s going to burn, painfully and slowly, but damned if he doesn’t let her set him on fire first.

He waits as long as he can stand it before he murmurs, “Clarke.”

“What?”

“We, uh, can’t go back to my place.”

“Mm,” she mutters, her lips at his neck. She runs a hand along the inseam of his jeans, making him shudder. Her fingers dig into the top of his thigh and he laughs nervously, because he can’t talk about what _that_ does to him. Clarke drags her fingers along his waistband while her mouth finds all the sensitive spots on his neck and it’s driving him crazy but he’s helpless to stop it. She’s setting him on fire in the worst way and _hot damn_ does he want her—need her, at this point, it’s gone way past wanting—but he can only pull her closer and resist the urge to grind against her.

“Clarke,” he whines, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “Not here.”

She kisses him, biting at his lip, and runs a hand through his hair. “Why can’t we go back to your place?”

 _Octavia_ , he thinks, but Clarke is _doing_ things to him and if he’s going to burn already, well… “You win,” he says between kisses.

He avoids Octavia when he gets home by running from the front door to his room, Clarke right next to him, and then slamming and locking the door behind him. Clarke backs him into the bed and he pulls her down next to him and somehow there’s another five more minutes of kissing before they start undressing each other. It’s not long before she’s pulling him close, begging him silently to just _do it already_. “Bellamy,” she whines, and then he’s setting _her_ on fire, at least for a while, and the blinding explosion of orgasm is a total anticlimax because he knows she’s going to walk out his door.

He doesn’t say anything when she drops dozens of kisses on his bare chest. He expects her to get up and find her clothes and leave any minute, but to his surprise, she stays. It’s not all night—it’s never all night—but it’s _hours_ , and he falls asleep eventually, curled up with her, and after she gets up and gets dressed, she leans over him and kisses him once, briefly, before she leaves.

(Octavia doesn’t speak to him for days after, not until he breaks down and admits that, yeah, okay, he _might_ be an addict.)


End file.
